Murder on the Prowl

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Hey.” He turned his head to address his father. “Dad, could we be alone?”

  In that moment Mr. Hallahan knew Jody was the girl in question, for his wife had told him Sean's words during his first, brief moment of lucidity when Cynthia Cooper was on guard.

  “I'll be just down the hall if you need me.”

  When he had left, Jody leaned over, kissing Sean on the cheek. “I'm sorry, I'm really sorry.”

  “I was stupid. It wasn't your fault.”

  “Yes, it was. I told you—well, the news—when I was pissed off at you and the world.”

  “I'll marry you if you like,” he gallantly offered.

  “No. Sean, I was angry because you were paying attention to Karen. I wanted to hurt you.”

  “You mean you aren't pregnant?” His eyes brightened.

  “No, I am.”

  “Oh.” He dropped his head back on the pillow. “Jody, you can't face this alone. Lying here has given me a lot of time to think.”

  “Do you love Karen?”

  “No. I haven't even gone out with her.”

  “But you want to.”

  He drew a long breath. “Yeah. But that was then. This is now.”

  “Will you walk again?”

  “Yes.” He spoke with determination. “The doctors say I'll never play football again . . . but they don't know me. I don't care what it takes. I will.”

  “Everyone's back at school. My dad confessed to the murders.”

  “Mom told me.” He didn't know what to say. “I wish I could be at Homecoming.”

  “Team won't be worth squat without you.”

  “Paul Briscoe will do okay. He's just a sophomore, but he'll be good.”

  “Do you hate me?” Her eyes, misty, implored him.

  “No. I hate myself.”

  “Did you tell anyone—”

  “Of course not.”

  “Don't.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Get rid of it.”

  He breathed hard, remaining quiet for a long time. “I wish you wouldn't do that.”

  “Sean, the truth is—I'm not ready to be a mother. You're not ready to be a father, either, and besides—it may not be yours.”

  “But you said—”

  “I wanted to hurt you. It may be yours and it may not. So just forget it. Forget everything. My dad's in jail. Just remember—my dad's in jail.”

  “Why would he kill Mr. Fletcher and Mr. McKinchie?”

  “I don't know.”

  His pain medication was wearing off. Sweat beaded on Sean's forehead. “We were having such a good time.” He pushed the button for the nurse. “Jody, I need a shot.”

  “I'll go. Don't worry. You're sure you didn't tell anyone anything?”

  “I didn't.”

  “I'll see you later.” She passed Mr. Hallahan, who walked back into Sean's room the minute she left.

  “She's the one.”

  “No.” Grimacing, Sean pleaded, “Dad, get the nurse, will you? I really hurt.”

  67

  That same night Cynthia Cooper and Little Mim sifted through papers at Little Mim's beautiful cottage on her mother's vast estate.

  “Why do you think April finally changed her mind?” Little Mim said.

  “Had to be that she heard about Roscoe's affair with Irene,” Coop answered. “Her hero suddenly had feet of clay.”

  The minutes from the various committee meetings provided no surprises.

  Roscoe's record book containing handwritten notes made after informal meetings or calls on possible donors did pack some punch.

  After a meeting with Kendrick Miller, Roscoe had scrawled, “Discussed women's athletics, especially a new training room for the girls. Whirlpool bath. Won't give a penny. Cheap bastard.”

  On Father Michael's long prayers during assembly: “A simple ‘Bless us, dear Lord' would suffice.”

  After a particularly bruising staff meeting where a small but well-organized contingent opposed athletic expansion and a film department, he wrote concerning Sandy Brashiers, “Judas.”

  As Little Mim occasionally read pungent passages aloud, Cynthia, using a pocket calculator, went through the accounting books.

  “I had no idea it cost so much money to run St. E's.” She double-checked the figures.

  “What hurts most is maintenance. The older buildings suck up money.”

  “Guess they were built before insulation.”

  “Old Main was put up in 1834.”

  Cynthia picked up the last book, a green clothbound book, longer than it was wide. She opened it to the figures page without checking the front. As she merrily clicked in numbers, she hummed. “Do you remember what cost five thousand dollars the first week of September? It says ‘W.T.'” She pointed to the ledger.

  “Doesn't ring a bell.”

  Cynthia punched in more numbers.

  “Hey, here's a good one.” Little Mim laughed, reading out loud. “‘Big Mim suggested I butter up Darla McKinchie and get her to pry money out of Kendrick. I told her Darla has no interest in St. Elizabeth's, in her husband's career and, as best I can tell, no affection for the state of Virginia. She replied, “How common!” '”

  Little Mim shook her head. “Leave it to Mother. She can't ever let me have something for myself. I'm on the board, she isn't.”

  “She's trying to help.”

  Marilyn's hazel eyes clouded. “Help? My mother wants to run every committee, organization, potential campaign. She's indefatigable.”

  “What cost forty-one thousand dollars?”

  Little Mim put down Roscoe's record book to look at the ledger. “Forty-one thousand dollars October twenty-eighth. Roscoe was dead by then.” She grabbed the ledger, flipping back to the front. “Slush fund. What the hell is this?”

  Coop couldn't believe she'd heard Little Mim swear. “I suppose most organizations have a kitty, although this is quite a large one.”

  “I'll say.” Little Mim glanced over the incoming sums. “We'll get to the bottom of this.” She reached for the phone, punching numbers as she exhaled loudly. “April, it's Marilyn Sanburne.” She pressed the “speaker” button so that Coop could hear as well.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Actually, I am,” came the curt reply. “Roscoe's record book is priceless. What is this green ledger?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “April, don't expect me to believe you. Why else would you remove these papers and accounting books? You must have known about the slush fund.”

  “First of all, given everyone's temper these days, a public reading of Roscoe's record book is not a good idea. Second, I have no idea what the slush fund was. Roscoe never once mentioned it to me. I found that book in his desk.”

  “Could Maury have started giving St. Elizabeth's an endowment?”

  “Without fanfare? He was going to give, all right, but we were going to have to kiss his ass in Macy's window.”

  Little Mim bit her lip. “April, I've misjudged you.”

  “Is that a formal apology?” April asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I accept.”

  “Sandy Brashiers couldn't have handled this,” Little Mim admitted.

  “He'd have fumbled the ball. All we need is for the papers to get wind of this before we know what it's all about,” April said.

  “You have no idea?” Little Mim pressed.

  “No. But you'll notice the incoming sums are large and regular. Usually between the tenth and fifteenth of each month.”

  “Let me see that.” Coop snatched the green book out of Little Mim's hands. “Damn!”

  “What?” Little Mim said.

  Cynthia grabbed the phone. “April, seventy-five thousand dollars came in the week after Roscoe died. It's not reflected in the ledger, but there is a red dot by October tenth. For the other deposits, there's a red dot with a black line through it.”

  “Primitive but effective bookkeeping,” April said.<
br />
  “Did you know a Jiffy bag with seventy-five thousand dollars arrived in Roscoe's mailbox at Crozet on October”—she figured a moment—“twelfth? I'm pretty sure it was the twelfth.”

  “I didn't know a thing about it.”

  “But sometimes you would pick up Roscoe's personal mail for him?”

  “Infrequently . . . but yes.”

  “Do you remember other Jiffy bags?”

  “Cooper, most books are sent in bags like that.”

  “Do you swear to me you don't know what this money represents?”

  “I swear, but I know it represents something not right. That's why I cleaned everything out. I didn't mind sitting in jail. I felt safe.”

  “One last question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you believe that Kendrick Miller killed Roscoe and Maury?”

  “Roscoe loathed him. But, no, I don't.”

  “He says he blew up in a rage.”

  “Show him the ledger.”

  “I'm going to do just that. One more question. I promise this is the last one. Do you think Naomi knows about the ledger?”

  A pause. “If she did, we'd see the money. Even if just a pair of expensive earrings.”

  “Thanks, April.”

  “Are you going to prosecute me for obstructing justice?”

  “I'm not the legal eagle, but I'll do what I can.”

  “Okay.” April hung up, satisfied.

  “Marilyn, I need this ledger. I won't publicize it, but I need to show it to Kendrick and Naomi. This is starting to look like money-laundering. Question is, was Kendrick Miller involved in it?”

  The next day Kendrick examined the figures closely but said nothing. Cynthia could have bashed him.

  Naomi appeared genuinely shocked by the secret bookkeeping.

  All Rick Shaw said when he read through the book was, “Dammit to hell!”

  68

  “Stick Vicks VapoRub up your nose.” Rick handed over the small blue glass jar to Cynthia Cooper as they cut the motor to the squad car.

  She fished out a big dab, smoothing it inside each nostril. The tears sprang from her eyes.

  “Ready?”

  “Yep.” She noticed that the photographer was already there. The rescue squad would soon follow. “Boy, George Bowden looks rough.”

  “Probably puked his guts out. Natural reaction.”

  “George.” Rick walked over, leaves crunching underfoot. “Feel up to some questions?”

  “Uh-huh.” He nodded.

  “What time did you discover the body?”

  “Well, now, let me see. I set the alarm for four o'clock 'cause I wanted to be at the edge of the oat fields just on my way down to the hayfields. Good year for grouse, I can tell you. Anyway, uh”—he rubbed his back pockets in an upward motion—“got here about four forty-five, thereabouts. The kids set up a ruckus. Followed them.” He indicated his hunting dogs as the kids.

  Cynthia carefully walked around the car. The Vicks killed the stench but couldn't do much about the sight. She dusted each door handle. As she was quietly doing her job, another member of the department, Tom Kline, arrived. He gagged.

  “Vicks.” She pointed to the squad car.

  He jammed the stuff up his nose, then returned, carefully investigating the car.

  “Guys, I'm going to open the door. It'll be a real hit even with the Vicks. We need to dust the inside door handles, the glove compartment, just hope we're lucky. We aren't going to get anything off the body.”

  When the door was opened, George, although twenty yards away, stepped backward. “My God.”

  “Walk on back here with me.” Rick led him out of olfactory range. “It's overpowering. The carbon cycle.”

  “What?”

  “Carbon. The breakdown of flesh.” Since George wasn't getting it, Rick switched back to business. “Did you notice anything unusual apart from the corpse? Footprints?”

  “Sheriff, that thing's been out here so long, any footprints would be washed out.”

  “A month to six weeks. 'Course, we've had some cold spells. Bill Moscowitz can pinpoint the time for us. Bad as it is, the corpse would be torn apart if it had been out of the car. The fact that it's relatively intact may help us.”

  “Tire tracks washed out, too. I mean, I would have noticed tire tracks before. Would have come on down.”

  “You haven't been over here?”

  “Been up on the mountain fields, no reason to come down here. Hay's not worth cutting this year anyway. Forgot to fertilize. Mostly I've been working on the mountainside of the farm because of the apples. Good year.”

  “What about grapes?”

  “Got them in 'fore the rains. Be real sweet 'cause of the light drought this summer.”

  “Do you recognize that corpse?”

  “How would I?”

  “Odd though it may seem, if that body belonged to someone you knew, you would probably recognize it even in its current condition. Nine times out of ten people do.”

  “You mean, you show people something like that?”

  “Only if we can't make an identification by any other means. Naturally, you try to spare the family as much pain as possible.”

  “I don't know that”—he gesticulated—“don't know the car. Don't know why she came down this lane. Don't know nothing.”

  “George, I'm sorry this has happened to you. Why don't you go on home? If I need you, I'll call or come by.”

  “You gonna take that outta here, aren't you?”

  “As soon as we finish dusting the car and taking photos.”

  “Something in the air, Sheriff.”

  “I beg pardon?” Rick leaned forward as if to draw closer to George's meaning.

  “Evil. Something in the air. The headmaster fella at the rich kids' school and then that Hollywood blowhard stabbed by Kendrick Miller. Sometimes I think a door to the underworld opens and bad spirits fly out.”

  “That's very interesting,” said Rick, who thought George was slightly demented: nice but tilted.

  “I was saying to Hilary the other day, evil flowing down the mountain with that cold wind. Life is an endless struggle between good and evil.”

  “I expect it is.” Rick patted him on the back. “You go on home, now.”

  George nodded good-bye. The dogs tagged at his heels. George, not more than thirty-five, thought and acted like a man in his sixties.

  “Boss, we're finished down here. You want a look before we wrap up?”

  “Yeah.” Rick ambled over. There were no weapons in the car or in the trunk, which ruled out a self-inflicted wound. There was no purse. Usually if someone committed suicide by drug overdose, the vial would be around. Given the body's state of decay, how she died would have to be determined by the coroner. “You satisfied?”

  “Yes,” Cooper replied, holding out the car registration. “Winifred Thalman.”

  “Okay.” He nodded to the rescue squad.

  Diana Robb moved forward with a net. When a body was decomposed, they placed a net around it to keep bones and disintegrating flesh together as much as possible.

  “I'm going back to the office,” Rick told Cynthia. “I'll call New York Department of Motor Vehicles and start from there. If there's a super at her address, I'll call him, too. I want you to make the rounds.”

  “You thinking what I'm thinking?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She would have been killed close to the time of Roscoe's death.”

  He picked up a brittle leaf, pulling away the drying upper epidermis, exposing the veins. “Could have.” He released the leaf to fall dizzily back to earth. “It's the why.”

  They looked at each other a long time. “Boss, how we gonna prove it?”

  He shrugged. “Wait for a mistake.”

  69

  The drive back from Richmond, hypnotic in its boredom, found Irene and Jody silent. Irene swung onto the exit at Manakin-Sabot.

  “Why are you getting off Sixty-fou
r?”

  “I'll stay more alert on Two-fifty. More to see.”

  “Oh.” Jody slumped back in her seat.

  “Do you feel all right?”

  “Tired.”

  “That's natural after what your body has just been through.”

  “Mom, did you ever have an abortion?”

  Irene cleared her throat. “No.”

  “Would you?”

  “I don't know. I was never in your position. Your father thinks it's murder.” Her brow furrowed. “How are you going to break this to him?”

  “He should talk.”

  “Don't start, today. He's a flawed man but he's not a killer. Now, I'm going to tell him you had a miscarriage. Leave it to me.”

  “We're lucky he's in jail.” Jody smiled weakly, adding, “If he was home he'd kill us!”

  “Jody!”

  “I'm sorry, but, Mom, he's confused. People do have secret lives, and Dad is weird.”

  Irene raised her voice. “You think he did it, don't you? You think he killed Roscoe and McKinchie. I don't know why. You ought to give your father more support.”

  “Dad's got an evil temper.”

  “Not that evil.”

  “You were going to divorce him. All of a sudden he's this great guy. He's not so great. Even in jail he's not much different from when he was out of jail.”

  A strangled silence followed. Then Irene said, “Everyone can change and learn. I know your pregnancy shocked him into looking at himself. He can't change the past, but he can certainly improve the future.”

  “Not if he gets convicted, he can't.”

  “Jody, shut up. I don't want to hear another word about your father getting convicted.”

  “It's better to be prepared for the worst.”

  “I'm taking this a day at a time. I can't handle any more than I'm handling now, and you aren't helping. You know your father is innocent.”

  “I almost don't care.” Jody sat up straight. “Just let me have what's left of this year, Mom, please.”

  Irene considered what her daughter said. Jody could seem so controlled on the outside, like her father, but her moods could also shift violently and quickly. Her outburst at the field hockey game, which now seemed years away, was proof of how unhappy Jody had been. She hadn't seen her daughter's problems because she was too wrapped up in her own. A wave of guilt engulfed her. A tear trickled down Irene's pale cheek.